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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27908014">wells of affection that snow no bounds</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/torrents/pseuds/torrents'>torrents</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Godmothered (2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Fluff, I CANNOT STRESS ENOUGH THAT THIS IS A JOKE, Meet-Cute, Other, Reader-Insert, Self-Insert, huzzah i suppose, it's wintertime and it may be time for you to emotionally reconnect with wattpad, pov you are gay and think santiago cabrera is cute</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 18:34:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,499</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27908014</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/torrents/pseuds/torrents</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In which you accidentally come to know a charming news reporter named Hugh.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hugh Prince/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>wells of affection that snow no bounds</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>weatherman santiago</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>POINT OF VIEW: </p><p>You’re really not meant to be in some tiny suburban town called ‘Marblehead.’ </p><p>No, it’s not <em>entirely</em> your fault. But your Uber driver severely messed up your destination, and now you’re stuck in the middle of a snowy cobblestone way that smells faintly of sadness and hotdogs. </p><p>But that may just be your imagination — no one is certain. You’re alone, and you’re cold, and the last thing you need is someone looking at the Stranger of the Town with an overly curious eye. </p><p>With nothing but your duffel bag slung across your shoulder, you trudge through the snow, passing by brightly decorated buildings. Cheery Christmas music plays with each step through sludge and loose rock.</p><p>It’s torture. You decide from the get-go that this is torture. <br/><br/></p><p>Agonizing minutes tick by, and the sidewalk grows slick beneath your boots before you find yourself at the front of the local bar, where you carry yourself through the entrance with half-hearted gusto and slump into an empty corner table. </p><p>Your phone dings with a text from your mother asking about ‘<em>where the hell are you we’ve been waiting around all day </em> ,’ and you respond, with frigid fingers<em>, ‘lost in a country town but don’t worry it’s cool,’ </em> to which she says rather fussily, <em>‘typical (y/n) nonsense, of course you are” </em> with that lightly crisp tone you’ve learned to hate, and <em> that’s </em>when you decide to turn your phone off. </p><p>The duffel slides off your shoulder easily onto the scuffed wooden floor. You sigh, tearing off your gloves, and pressing your eyes into your palms. </p><p>“God,” you mumble, “I’m so tired.” The patrons haven’t paid you any notice yet - they’re occupied with the pool table or talking quietly among each other, grins like shiny ribbons stretched across kindly faces. There's a late afternoon light filling each crevice with honey ; people around you are doused in the quiet warmth, and you feel the same light dancing across your hands. </p><p>Marblehead is brimming with nice faces. You decide that, maybe, this could be worse. </p><p>Rather belatedly, you notice that there's a heater on. Sweat is trickling down your neck, so you discard your jacket and walk up to the bar, where there's a man with soft edges seated at the end stool. </p><p>You clamber onto a stool, two seats down, and call out to the bartender. Smiling easily, they take your quickly rattled off order and begin to mix your drink. The man with soft edges doesn't say anything, tapping deliberately at his drink glass with his lips drawn in. You rest your arms on the dark surface, examining him as you feel your own drink being plunked in front of you. </p><p>Taking a sip, you tilt your head. There's something weirdly familiar about this man. But you just can't put your finger on why. </p><p>
  <em>It’s the cheekbones. Or maybe the hair. Yeah, that must be it. This man has really, really nice hair.</em>
</p><p>Unfortunately, you're so caught up in your less than subtle stares that you don't notice him looking side to side, shaking his head, and then leaning across the way to say, "Um, can I help you?" </p><p>You're jolted from your reverie. "What was that?”</p><p>He raises his hand in a gentle wave, disarming smile in place. "Hey. Can I help you?" </p><p>Placing your drink down, you try to regain any semblance of composure you may have had. "Oh! No, I'm okay. I just, I <em>swear</em> I've seen you before." </p><p>He hums, pushing up his glasses from his nose. "Ah. Well, it's possible, with me being a news reporter and all. Talking about exciting stuff like the, uh, weather.” His voice is quiet, low ; you scoot down a seat to hear him better. "The name is Hugh." </p><p>"Hugh,” you repeat. He inclines his head forward in acknowledgment. “Well, I must be tuning into the wrong channels then because,” you’re leaning forward now, “if <em>you</em> reported the weather, I'm sure I'd be tuning in more often." The words leave your mouth before you can stop them, and god, that sounded fucking <em>stupid</em>, didn't it, but Hugh doesn't seem to mind. He smiles and tilts his drink towards you in greeting.</p><p>You realize he’s probably used to this reaction, by some twisted miracle of god. You want to kick yourself.</p><p>“New here?” he asks. It takes less than a minute for you to notice the flush still high in his cheeks, and dampened hair where snow had fallen into tangled curls. </p><p>He’s got brown eyes, the soft kind that makes you think of coffee and light embers, behind fogged black glasses.</p><p>Small town charm may actually be real. Oh, the beauty of close distance. </p><p>“Sure,” you mumble, and his grin widens, “you could say that.”</p><p>“Hey, you don’t need to hold back. But if you’re not comfortable, that’s okay, too.” He sets his drink down, waiting patiently. </p><p>You stare at him, for one beat and then another. Clearing your throat, you manage, “Well, I can tell you later, if you want. It’s not a big deal or anything.”</p><p>“Oh?” Hugh has bright eyes that crinkle when he talks. He sticks his hands inside his (ginormous fluffy olive) parka, attention fully focused on you. “Sure, that’s okay. I’ve got some time before we’re supposed to leave.” He gestures to himself, and then to two women in the back fussing over the pool table. "This is just a pit stop before we're due to head back to the station." </p><p>Hugh is tall (lanky, though, but you don’t say that) and carries himself in his seat like royalty.</p><p>Conversation flows easily. Your drinks gradually begin to empty, and you feel your edges softening, too.</p><p>He says his full name, Hugh Prince, and you cover your laugh with a free hand.</p><p>His dimple deepens. “What’s so funny?”</p><p>“Nothing! It’s just...”</p><p>“Just what?”</p><p>“Sort of funny,” you supply.</p><p>“That my name is Hugh?” he asks. He’s confused. You think that’s cute.</p><p>Slowly, you shake your head. “No, no, just...your last name. You’re quite the gentleman, is all.”</p><p>His voice softens. "Oh. Thank you, um...?" </p><p>"(Y/n)," you relent. But you're laughing a little bit now, and his mouth is curving upwards at the sound of your voice. "My name is (y/n)." </p><p>He tips an invisible hat - a token of highest respect. His voice is still soft, with the cadence of mellow vinyl records. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, (y/n)."</p><p>"And I you." <br/><br/></p><p>::</p><p> </p><p>Hugh sort of reminds you of a faded radio signal, a distant voice you heard on the sidewalks and kept taped away in a cardboard box.</p><p>He thinks you’re funny. </p><p>And you keep on talking.</p><p> </p><p>::</p><p> </p><p>He pays your tab, and goes on a tangent about being plowed over by a sled. Hugh says he went viral on accident, and in an incredible epiphany, you realize why he looks so familiar. </p><p>"Wait. Sledding crash guy, that’s <em>you?"</em> </p><p>Hugh ducks his head, ashamed. Then, he does a somewhat joyful set of jazz hands. "Yes! 'Tis I. The one and only." Hugh looks both defeated and proud, and you conclude here that he's quite possibly the only man ever.</p><p>"I didn't know I was talking to a celebrity," you tease. </p><p>"Not a big one," Hugh responds dryly. "I don't think we've hit the two million view mark yet." </p><p>"I'm sure you'll get there soon."</p><p>You pat his shoulder, in what you think is a reassuring gesture. He chuckles.  </p><p>"Ah, yes. The spectacle of a local newsman being taken out by the blunt force of a child's toy." </p><p>"It's entertaining, though, isn't it?" And in a flash, you remember those awful winter puns he'd been throwing out. "You know like, the sort of fun that knows<em> snow bounds</em>." </p><p>“A flurry of activity that inspires a <em>storm</em> of attention,” Hugh says, and he looks like the sun. Like a flesh and bones clown of a fairytale prince who’s somehow discovered the secret to universal levitation. “Oh, my god, you get it.” <br/><br/></p><p>“Yeah, I do.” Your chest feels lighter than it has in hours, and you muster up a smile. <br/><br/></p><p>There’s a beep from your phone in your pocket, but you ignore it. <br/><br/></p><p>Instead, you tell Hugh your tragic Uber story, and he proceeds to laugh, but sympathetically with no trace of snideness. He tells you in turn that he likes poetry and history, and thinks the weather forecast for the week doesn’t look too bad.</p><p>Without meaning to, you feel him leaning into your orbit, gently, with soft banter back and forth. </p><p>Then an hour strikes, and Hugh says goodbye and departs, olive parka, thick glasses, and all. </p><p>His number is scrawled on a sticky note with a cloud shape, and you shove it into your pocket. </p><p><em>Let me know if you need anything. Bad puns, virality, the weather. </em><br/><br/>You smile, then book a hotel room to stay in Marblehead for the next week. </p><p>Because, well, your parents can wait. </p><p>The weather here seems interesting. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>no thoughts</p></blockquote></div></div>
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